Tyr's Pants
by Lassar
Summary: Just a short bit about the power of imagination that I totally blame Cherubino for. (not that I'm complaining, mind you)


This one's for Cherubino, who single-handedly inspired this with her comment right before bed. I give you:  
  
Tyr's Pants  
  
It's been a long and tiring day. I've soaked in a tub full of my favorite bubbles and tried to let go of the tension until my fingers have wrinkled up like prunes. I step out of the cooling water and dry off with a towel that matches the dark green accents of my predominantly cream colored bathroom. My muscles are looser for the long bath, but I still can't get rid of the final edges of what had been a wicked headache.  
  
Work sucks. If it weren't for this little habit I have called eating, I would tell my boss what a micromanaging, high-maintenance ignoramus he is and quit. Instead I suck it up, hold it in, and keep my head down. By the end of the day I desperately need to escape my crappy, but paying, job.  
  
Normally I go out with friends and blow off a little steam, but out of deference to the headache, I am home. I want nothing more challenging than a good book, a glass of wine, and to soak in blessed silence. The wine I sipped while lazing in the tub, but the book is waiting on my nightstand. I have ruined too many tomes with an accidental dunking to try that combination any more.  
  
I toss the dark green towel over the hook and pull on my favorite silk nightgown. Every little bit of comfort helps, and I adore the feel of the cool fabric sliding over my skin as I walk down the hall to my bedroom.  
  
I sit down on the edge of my bed, ready to turn out the light and go to sleep when the half-closed door to my bedroom moves. It opens the rest of the way with the slightest creak. I keep meaning to oil the hinges, but somehow never think about it until I'm doing something else, like going to sleep.  
  
The difference between the utter dark of the hall and the soft light of my room leaves the person in the door a momentarily indistinct black shape. I stand back up, confused. For a moment I think it is my roommate, but the shadowy figure is too tall. He steps past the threshold and pulls the door closed behind him.  
  
The silhouette comes into focus slowly, it's as if my brain is having trouble processing what my eyes are telling me. When it finally does come clear, I still feel like there's some mistake. I cannot possibly be seeing what I think I'm seeing.  
  
The hair is long, black, and separated into dreadlocks that spill over his shoulders and down his chest. Eyes like warm honey meet mine, and I know there's been no mistake. Somehow, some way, Tyr Anasazi is in my house, in my bedroom.  
  
My knees give out from the shock and I end up sitting on the edge of the bed again. I stare; I can't help it. He's not wearing a shirt, just a long, sleeveless, leather duster and pants. I'd pinch myself, but if this is a dream, I have no intention of waking myself up.  
  
He shrugs out of the black leather jacket, letting it drop like a stage curtain. My eyes can't help but follow the path of the duster as it drops, it's as if I am mesmerized. The breath catches in my throat as I slowly drag my gaze back up from his booted feet. The pants are skintight black leather, molding his body like a second skin. They seem to delineate every bulging muscle, and I spare a moment to curse the weapon belt riding low on his hips. It's blocking my view.  
  
He reaches for the buckle on the belt, as if he can hear me thinking. Or maybe I'm staring to hard. With a surge of embarrassment I glance up at his face to see if I've been busted. He's grinning that naughty little boy grin at me. He knows what I'm thinking all right.  
  
If the gleam in his eye is anything to go by, he doesn't mind in the slightest. I relax; glad he is not offended by my blatant staring. It gives me license to continue with a clear conscience, and I intend to look at whatever he chooses to show me. Maybe more, if the Gods are feeling kind.  
  
The weapon belt drops on top of the pool of black leather at his feet. He leans down and unbuckles his boots, giving me a good view of his muscled back. The urge to run my hands over the warm skin makes my palms tingle. He straightens and kicks the boots off with practiced ease.  
  
His hands go to the fasteners on those incredibly tight pants. I lick suddenly dry lips. Surely he isn't going to...he is. He unsnaps them slowly, his dark eyes watching me watching him. He begins to peel the leather over his hips...  
  
"BBBBBBZZZZZZZ!" The sound of my alarm shreds the dream. Time to get around for work, goddammit. One of these days I am going to quit, just so I can sleep in and find out what he is or isn't wearing under there. 


End file.
